Spark
by CrankWindPencil
Summary: Mulder is like a fire.


**ay trigger warning for self harm in this just so u guys know** **its fairly explicit and does play a sort of major role in the story**

* * *

When Fox Mulder is 13, his best friend's house burns to the ground. He lives just down the street and runs, fast as he can, to stand on the sidewalk next to the family and watches as flames hungrily devour the wood and drywall and carpet that had once been a home.

The fire department comes, but not soon enough to do much more than hose down the remaining rubble and extinguish lingering sparks.

Fox runs home and comes back minutes later with a heap of blankets in his arm and his mother's permission to spend the night on the sidewalk to make sure looters don't come. He doubts she had even heard his request, doubts that she'll notice his absence and tries not to focus on that.

It's not her fault, he thinks. It doesn't take long for everyone to get situated on the sidewalk, as comfortable as it's possible to be under the circumstances. They're asleep in under an hour, exhausted by the night's events.

Except Fox.

He doesn't sleep that night or the next, too wired, too scared if he's perfectly honest, to close his eyes for more than a few minutes at a time.

Days later, when exhaustion kicks in and he finally nods off one night, it's only a short time before he wakes, covered in sweat, breathing ragged. He's not entirely sure why he woke up, only that he's afraid and deeply unsettled. It's hours until he calms down and drifts off to sleep again, but it's not even half that before he wakes up again. Except this time he knows why. He lets out a deep breath he didn't know he'd been holding and attempts to methodically rid his mind of the things he'd seen -of the house engulfed in flames on repeat- and of things he hadn't seen -his school aflame, himself waking up in a motel to smoke and heat and flames covering the ceiling and crawling up from the foot of his bed.

Fox's heart slows, returning to normal as he relaxes.

He doesn't like these dreams, he decides.

He wonders how long they will last.

 **~oOo~**

They never really go away, Fox finds.

He's 17 years old, a senior in highschool, and he's scared shitless of fire. Doesn't matter where it is or what type. The stove at his house has gas burners and he refuses to be in the kitchen when they're on. Prefers to be out of the house, if he can.

Not that he spends much time at all at home, but the point still stands.

He's at home now though and he's locked himself in his room. He's sick of being scared of fire, of being antsy when somebody so much as flicks a lighter on, of still waking up from the same dreams that started three four years ago.

There's a psychology class at his school. Fox is in it, loves the subject. It's what he wants to study when he goes off to Oxford. They'd learned about therapies not long ago, only at a base level, but one in particular stands out in Fox's mind.

Exposure therapy, he thinks, is how he'll rid himself of his fear.

He'd bought a box of matches at a corner store on his way home from school, locked himself in his room, and is now holding a match against the box's strike strip. His hands are shaking and no matter how hard he focuses, he can't make them stop.

He's angry. This is ridiculous.

He's not going to calm down, he know that, so he's just got to do it. His hand jerks the match across the box and suddenly he's got a flame in his hand it's wrong wrong _wrong_ and he drops the match almost as soon as it's lit, stomps it out. Pulls out another match. The room smells like sulpher as he strikes the head against the strip.

He doesn't drop it this time, only watches in transfixed terror as it burns. The flame starts moving down the match and he quickly blows it out even though it's still two inches from his fingertips. Frustrated, he takes out yet another match and closes his eyes before lighting it. If he can't see it, it'll be okay. Seconds pass and Fox feels the heat grow on his hand until his fingers are burning- his eyes flash open and see that the match has burned down to his hand. Hastily he extinguishes it and examines his hand. It's fine, he finds, and he's not half as scared as he thought he would be.

Maybe, he thinks, if he burns himself, he'll see that logically speaking, he has no reason to be afraid of fire.

Cautiously he strikes a match and holds the flame to the underside of his forearm and _shit_ that hurts. He waves the match until it's out and seconds later he's doing it again, hand clenched around the little wooden stick, fingernails digging into his palm as he burns his skin white. The match burns itself out and Fox sits still a moment, looking at his arm, slightly unsettled.

He does it again and more times after that until his arm is littered with burns and the thing is, that when he's done, even though his arm hurts, he feels better than he has in months.

Fox blinks.

He doesn't think he's scared of fire anymore.

He thinks he likes it.

 **~oOo~**

A month later and he's back to fearing fire.

This time, because he can't control it.

He keeps a lighter in his pocket at all times and his arms are covered in burns and he _can't stop doing it_. He's scared he's scared he's scared because it's like an addiction that he can't control and nobody sees it, nobody sees that something is wrong even though his long sleeves and shaking hands and too thin frame should make it obvious, because nobody wants to believe that bright, young, promising Fox Mulder is capable of self destruction like this. His grades are perfect, as always, thanks to his eidetic memory, but he feels as though everything else is falling apart. His mother is as distant as ever, he hardly sees his father at all, and in a little over five months he'll be in another country, studying at Oxford.

It's too much.

He holds a flame to his skin and tries to forget.

 **~oOo~**

People compare Fox Mulder to fire.

It's his personality, they say. He's passionate and eclectic, like a flickering flame, he's bright and he's all-consuming, says anyone who's ever met him.

He thought that maybe at Oxford, the comparisons might stop. He was dead wrong.

If anything, it happens more often because he's studying at one of the most prestigious universities in the world and he's taking part in class discussions now and for the first time he has professors who put up with his eccentricities and quirks and he's thankful for that at least, even if they don't know anything more about him than he dares to let show in class. Even if they believe him to be a sensible, reasonable young psych major because they've never seen his dorm with posters of extraordinary phenomenon plastered on his walls and the thousand of printed off reports of close encounters that he spends more time studying than his coursework and the dozens of disposable lighters that are scattered around the room, the strikingly noticeable burn marks on the wall from when Mulder is bored and can't sleep at 3 AM.

He never thanks them for the comparison.

 **~oOo~**

Phoebe Green is comparable to fire. Fox knows this, he, of all people, should, after all, but he's not sure if it's a good thing. She's exciting, constantly moving. But she's also uncontrollable, always caught up in the moment. They've been dating for two months and they barely know anything about each other. Phoebe doesn't seem to be bothered by this. Fox can't stop thinking about it.

He wonders what their relationship means to her, if anything.

 **~oOo~**

If Fox Mulder is a fire, he thinks he might be burning out. Which is ironic, considering he's barely 29 and that just last year he had closed a huge case for the Bureau. People remember that, but no one takes him seriously anymore, not since he found out about the X-Files and brought his extraterrestrial theories to the attention of his superiors. He's been Spooky Mulder ever since Quantico, but it had been okay then. Now that he's an agent though, with a badge and a gun and a mouth that's ready to spout off about paranormal activity to anyone within earshot. He's become uncredible, an 'embarrassment to the Bureau', are, he thinks, the exact words he'd heard through a closed door earlier that week.

He needs to rephase.

It's his career that's burning out.

He feels more alive than ever.

The X-Files are a spark of hope. The only reason they exist are because they can't be explained by conventional knowledge and that's exciting to Mulder, who knows that his sister was abducted, not kidnapped, because here's his chance to find out what really happened to her but nobody sees it and nobody is listening.

Fox makes them listen.

He talks about nothing else, brings up an X-File report as often as he can when they're discussing a case and after four months he's called down to Walter Skinner's office.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

Skinner looks Mulder up and down, looks unimpressed by his wrinkled suit and generally dishevelled appearance.

"Agent Mulder, I take it?"

"Yes, sir." Fox answers, words hurried. Vaguely, he wonders if he's being let go.

Skinner leans back in his chair.

"You've taken quite an interest in the X-Files, lately, haven't you, Mulder?"

Fox shifts his weight in his stance, stands up a little straighter.

"Yes, sir. I have." he answers, voice steady.

Skinner nods.

"Good. You've been reassigned to the X-Files."

Mulder blinks, taken aback.

"Who's my partner, sir?" he asks, trying to disguise his surprise behind a controlled question.

"You've not been assigned a partner. Will that be a problem, Mulder?"

"No, sir."

That's even better. Finally, he can pursue his interest with authority and he'll be backed by the FBI-

"Your new office is in the basement level, last door on the left."

And that's when ox realizes that he's being hidden away. He should have realized it immediately, truthfully. Public embarrassment Spooky Mulder, assigned crack cases with no partner, shoved into the most isolated room the Bureau could find.

"...Yes, sir." he says, tries to hide the disappointment and betrayal and borderline fury in his voice. Skinner nods slightly and doesn't take his eyes off Mulder.

"I recommend you start moving your things, Mulder." he says, voice practically expressionless.

Fox swallows hard and gives a stiff nod.

"Yes, sir."

He doesn't wait any longer before turning and starting back to where he used to work, stride very carefully controlled.

He's tired of not being taken seriously, of always being pushed to the side, ignored. He's tired of being dismissed as crazy, tired of being Spooky Mulder.

Fox will take this assignment and run with it and burn so bright that everyone will see him.

 **~oOo~**

A year later and Fox Mulder is occupying the strange middle ground where none of his peers pay him any attention but his superiors are hypervigilant of his every move.

Dana Scully is assigned to spy on him while pretending to be his partner and her hair is red as flame. Mulder doesn't know what that symbolizes but he thinks it's probably important, somehow.

He shows her the X Files and tells her his theories and she calls him crazy and they fight and at first he thinks that's all their relationship will ever be, tense and skeptical and surface deep until she comes, panicked and almost crying, to his motel room their first case together to make Mulder check that she hasn't been bitten and until they're trapped in Alaska together and until she listens to his memories of his sister being taken and even then he can't quite bring himself to believe it.

"Why can't you believe, Scully?"

They're in the basement, Fox by his desk, files in hand, clearly aggravated, as Scully stands across the room, arms folded.

"Because this is crazy, Mulder!" she exclaims. "There's no evidence to support any of this!"

Mulder slams his files on his desk.

"Oh, that's what you think of me? I'm crazy? Spooky fucking Mulder in his basement, spouting bullshit-"

"You _know_ that's not what I think of you, Mulder."

"I don't know that! All I know is that the Bureau is trying to shut me down and you're helping them and I can't trust you, I can't trust anybody-"

"I'm the only person you _can_ trust!" Scully cuts across, voice bordering hysterical. "You're the only person _I_ can trust! Jesus, Mulder, how much more obvious can I make it?"

Mulder doesn't answer for a moment, chest rising and falling unevenly, and he looks to the ground.

"...You're right, Scully. I'm sorry." he murmurs.

"It's fine, Mulder, honestly, but you've _got_ to _trust_ me." Scully says, voice gentle as she watches Mulder.

"I know. I do."

"Do what?"

Mulder glances to Scully.

"Trust you."

Scully opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again.

"Good."

They're both quiet, meeting each other's gaze.

"C'mon," Mulder says. "We've got work to do."

 **~oOo~**

Scully doesn't like how often Mulder manages to get himself hurt, how completely he disregards his own safety, how intentional it seems sometimes.

Mulder, sneaking into a military airbase and having his memory wiped, nearly being eaten by a beast woman, jumping out of a _fucking window_ for Christ's sake. Attacked by _something_ in Wisconsin, warranting crutches. The list could go on.

Today, when Scully opens the door and steps into the office, she's greeted by the sight of Mulder, pouring over papers and pressing an impressively blood soaked washcloth to the side of his neck.

"There's a case in Nevada we should be thinking about, Scully." he says mildly as she closes the door. "Should probably talk to Skinner-"

"Mulder," Scully cuts across. "What the _hell_ happened to you?"

"Hmm?" Mulder looks up from his papers, turns to face Scully. "Oh, nicked myself shaving this morning."

"No, Christ, Mulder, that's not a nick." Scully walks over to Mulder, examines his neck more closely. "How long has that been bleeding for?"

Mulder shrugs.

"A while."

"Let me look at it."

"Scully, no it's fine." Fox protests, closing his eyes and it's then that Scully sees just how tired he sounds, notices the bags under his eyes, the way his shoulders slump. She frowns.

"Mulder, please."

Beat.

"Fine." Mulder resigns. Scully nods, carefully takes the towel off of his neck. The cut isn't quite a gash but it's certainly more than a nick, as Mulder had claimed.

"Jesus, do you shave with a straight razor?"

"Mmm." Mulder gives a slight nod as Scully puts the towel back over the cut.

"We could cauterize it, a small amount of heat, a flame..." she suggests. Mulder visibly tenses.

"No."

"Mulder-"

 _"No."_ he says again, more forceful this time around. Scully puts her hands up.

"Fine."

"Thank you, though, Scully."

He puts his face in his hands for a moment, stays like that.

"...How long has it been since you've slept?" Scully asks after a few seconds/

"Mmm." is his non-answer.

 _"Fox."_

That gets his attention. Mulder glances to her, though he doesn't say anything.

"How long, Mulder?"

"...I dunno. Three days, maybe four." pause. "Five?"

Scully lets out a breath, tries not to let her anger show. Typical Mulder. It would explain his cut, though. Carelessness while shaving due to sleep deprivation, and Scully doesn't think he's lying, right now at least.

"Why?" she asks.

"Been working." he answers and somehow that only feels like half the truth.

"Go home, Mulder. Go to bed."

"Don't have a bed." Mulder replies. Scully blinks.

"...What?"

"I sleep on the couch."

"Then...go sleep on your couch."

Mulder shakes his head.

"Gotta go talk to Skinner about this case."

 _"I_ will talk to Skinner. Give me the files and I'll present it to him later." beat. "And judging by this conversation alone, I really don't think that you're in any condition to be talking to much of anybody."

Mulder hesitates, seems to consider. It won't take much more, Scully thinks.

"Skinner isn't overly supportive of the X-files under the best of circumstances. I hardly think he would be enthused when you fell asleep in his office while trying to get approval for this case.

"He likes you better anyways."

Scully doesn't quite know what to say to that. She doesn't think it's quite that simple in any case.

"I think that he's sometimes more inclined to listen to my thoughts, on the X-files, yes."

Mulder stands up from his desk and Scully watches as he steadies himself, though doesn't say anything or offer to help. She knows that it would far from appreciated. He takes his coat from the back of his chair and drapes it over his shoulder."

"...I think you're right. I could use some sleep." he says, pointedly ignoring Scully's snort. "...I'm glad you're around, Scully. You keep me in line."

"Is that the only reason you're glad I'm here?" Scully asks, only half serious. Mulder gives one of his shit-eating grins and closes the space between them in a few quick strides.

"Hardly."

Scully's breath hitches at their proximity and she feels the need to inch even closer, though she couldn't explain why. Before she can, Mulder's stepped past her and he's opening the door.

"See you tomorrow." he says flippantly.

"I'll call you tonight." Scully manages.

Mulder nods and steps into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

The basement feels emptier than Scully thought it would without Mulder's presence, and although she's been working on the X-files for months, in the moment she still feels as though she's intruding on something intensely personal.

She shakes her head and sits down at Mulder's desk, looks at the mess of files and papers strewn across it.

She hopes he'll listen to her, for once.

 **~oOo~**

The longer Scully sits next to Mulder's motel bed, the more she feels like perhaps she should leave her partner's room and never let Mulder know that she had seen him like this and let him wake up by himself. This case had already been hard on him and Scully doesn't want to make it anymore so, doesn't want to make him feel vulnerable because he's been asleep and shirtless for hours while Scully's been awake, switching between watching the way his face relaxes when he's asleep and staring in a kind of fascinated horror at the messy, blotted white and pink scars that cover his forearms.

Scully's a medical doctor, but she doesn't need to be one to see that the scars are from deep, self-inflicted burns. She'll never admit it, but

"Scully?"

Mulder's awake.

"Mulder." Scully says breathlessly. Mulder sits up in his bed, looks around.

"I drove you back here and let you into your room." Scully offers as an explanation. "After a few hours I came over and called for you. When you didn't answer, I let myself in. I was worried."

Mulder gives a slow nod.

"How long have you been in here?" he asks.

"A few hours. You've been in here eight. I suspect your body is still recovering from smoke inhalation."

Both of them are quiet and after a moment Mulder stands up from the bed, rummages through his suitcase and pulls on a pair of jeans. He takes out a shirt, hesitates.

"I know you saw them, Scully." he mentions with what feels like forced casualness.

"Mulder, we don't have to talk about it-" Scully starts.

"No, it's fine. I understand if you have questions, if you want to transfer departments-"

 _"Mulder."_

Mulder freezes.

"What the _hell_ are you thinking?"

"I- just...you might not want to be partnered with me after seeing..." he trails off, motions vaguely to his forearms.

"Sit down, Mulder." Scully commands. Mulder sits on the edge of the bed, across from Scully. He won't quite meet her gaze and that bothers her, it really does, because at some point Mulder had convinced himself that their relationship was this fragile, that if he showed her anymore of himself than he showed the rest of the Bureau, she would leave him with hardly a second thought.

"...I'm not going to request a transfer." she says. Mulder looks up at her, faint surprise on his features. "You're my partner, and more than that, you're my friend."

"I'm your friend." Mulder repeats.

"Yes," Scully says, and goddamn, if Mulder's not being absolutely sincere right now. "I do actually give a damn what happens to you, Mulder."

Mulder blinks, nods.

"And I hope that feeling is mutual." Scully adds. Mulder gives a violent start.

"Of course, Scully, I didn't mean to give the impression that it wasn't-"

"Please, Mulder." Scully cuts across, thrown by Mulder's reaction. "That's not what I meant, it was just something I was saying. I've never doubted your care for me. That's not what I was saying."

"...Alright." Mulder says, much calmer this time around. Scully thinks there's probably a fairly profound reason Mulder is reacting so strongly to everything she's saying, and it's honestly not something she's sure she wants to know about.

"I'm not leaving you, Mulder." she says, because although his apparent issue with abandonment is probably not simple by any means, it is at least something she can reassure him of without touching on it too much.

"Okay." the response feels automatic.

"I mean it. I'm not leaving you now and I don't plan to."

There's a slight hesitation on Mulder's part before he nods, but it feels more real than before. Both are quiet.

"...I do have a question though." Scully mentions after a few moments. Mulder tenses slightly, but nods again nonetheless.

"Is that why you're scared of fire?"

Mulder doesn't answer for a few seconds, electing rather to stand up and pull his shirt on.

"Not exactly." he says, voice remarkably calm. "I didn't lie to you, Scully. My friend's house really did burn down, and that terrified me." he pauses. "In high school, I thought, if I did this, I wouldn't be scared of fire anymore. I called it exposure therapy." and despite himself, Mulder can't help but give a half smile, and Scully can't quite bring herself to return it. She's not scared, exactly, more like unsettled because even now Mulder has that drive that must have allowed him to do that to himself in high school, and it doesn't put her much at ease to think that not much has changed in him since then. Apparently, the feeling is mutual, because behind his faint smile, Scully sees that he's unnerved, too.

"And it worked, for a little while." Mulder's voice cuts across Scully's thoughts. "It got to be too much, though. Couldn't keep it in check and it got out of hand." beat. "Anyways, though, have we, um, done the report?"

Although it was in no way eloquent, Scully understood the unspoken message. _Topic. Closed._

Stretching, she stood up from her seat, too.

"I finished it before I came to your room." she answers easily and sees Mulder visibly relax, thinks that the both of them are probably glad that the conversation is over, even if it had needed to happen.

"Alright. I'll finish packing and then we can catch a flight back to D.C.?"

"Yeah, sounds good, Mulder."

Mulder smiles again, and it's real and it's infectious, and, this time, Scully smiles back.

 **~oOo~**

It's spring, almost summer, it's 100 degrees in D.C., and Mulder and Scully are filing paperwork in the basement which lacks either a heater or an AC, or, in fact, any kind of ventilation at all. Scully is wearing one of her skirts and short sleeved blouses and while she's not exactly comfortable, she is at least faring better than Mulder, who has a thin sheen of sweat on his face and is clad in his typical full suit.

Scully sets a file down and leans back in her chair.

"Aren't you hot?"

"Mmm."

"Mulder, I won't be held responsible when you pass out from heat stroke."

"I'm fine, Scully." Mulder snaps, taking Scully by surprise.

The air in the basement is hot and stale and slow, and it takes Scully a moment to realize the most probably reason behind Mulder's reluctance to take off his jacket.

"...I really don't mind them, Mulder."

Mulder's jaw stiffens.

"Just leave it. Please."

"I don't know how to make you believe it, but you're still my friend and I still care about you. I know you're not comfortable and that you think you're staying that way for my sake, but honestly that bothers me more than your _arms_ , Mulder."

Mulder doesn't answer, instead shuffles through a few more files, and Scully thinks that she's lost him.

"...You know, Scully, I really don't think that I'm afraid of fire anymore." Mulder mentions casually.

Scully freezes because _what the hell is that supposed to mean_ and a thousand possibilities flood her mind and, oh God, did Mulder hurt himself and this is his way of telling her-

"I'm sorry?" she asks, her voice harboring none of the concern she feels. Mulder glances to her, gaze gentle.

"No, that wasn't very clear, was it?" he pauses, seems to consider his words for a moment as he takes off his jacket with hardly a hitch in his movement, and Scully is relieved to see no new burns, only scars that are a decade old. "You're a lot like fire, you're fierce and clever and quick, and your hair is as red as any flame but I've never felt as safe as I do around you..." he trails off, hid face blushing pink and Scully is blushing, too, because that was as close to poetry as she's ever heard him speak and of all things, it was about her.

"I-...I'm glad, Mulder." is what she says because that's the most tame thing she can say and anything else she's thinking would border on starkly unprofessional.

"Yeah, me too." Mulder says, bemused.

There's a tension in the air that Scully can't quite place and all of a sudden it's cut through by her own voice and she's saying

"You're like a fire, too, Mulder, you're passionate and when I'm around you you're all consuming and I don't think that's at all a bad thing." she says and the words just seem to pour out and she can't stop from making the comparison.

Mulder smiles.

"Thank you, Scully."

And he means it.

* * *

 **ok so I haven't posted anything on here i so if you guys wanna keep up with my current stuff you can find me at archiveofourown .org and my username is still CrankWindPencil. I'm still gonna try to get my new stories up on here at some point but they'll be posted first on ao3. if u wanna review that's cool if u don't that's cool too thx for reading :))))**


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